A few short weeks into my romance with my (now) husband we were driving to work when he looked at me and very plainly said, “I love you too.”
The prior conversation had nothing to do with love, nor had I said those three words of such importance, so I was perplexed at his exclamation.
And I really hid it really well.
The moments after his profound statement of love were filled to the brim with my crazy rambling about how saying “I love you” too early in a relationship is just something you shouldn’t do. I mean it had only been a little over a month! This had happened to me in the past and I spared no details on why it’s a terrible thing to say so soon.
I think that at some point in that stream of consciousness I managed to throw in a few sentences about how I really wasn’t trying to be unkind and I liked him a lot, but it was just too soon. TOO SOON.
I went on and on. And on.
I listed examples from my last relationship with Drunk Hands McGee and told him about how I wasn’t even sure if I believed in love (I know, how he didn’t marry me in that very moment I’ll never know either). I dug myself a right pretty hole and then laid in it for another 10 minutes of rambling.
He listened patiently, with little expression showing on his face. I had visions of him dropping me off at work and never speaking to me again. He was going to break up with me, I had killed our relationship, I just knew it.
A few minutes of awkward silence passed after I finished my rant before he looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said, “Um, I meant that I love U2- you know, the band that was playing on the radio. But all of this is good to know too.”
And then I died. The coroner determined that it was death due to a foot being shoved all the way down my throat and out my ass.